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<title>Metal-Worked Roses by Once a Bard (bossyluigi)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27811123">Metal-Worked Roses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bossyluigi/pseuds/Once%20a%20Bard'>Once a Bard (bossyluigi)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>DnD: An Anthology [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons &amp; Dragons - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drow, Human Gunslinger, M/M, chef's kiss, gay gay gay gay, get us some good flirtatious gays</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:08:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27811123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bossyluigi/pseuds/Once%20a%20Bard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The mystery of the kindred spirit disappeared like a phantom, leaving only the stories and the songs to retell. There had to have been more to this than just an evening, and with hope, there would be answers awaiting him beyond the walls of the smithy, beyond the confines of the town, and beyond the realm of the world Gillian had known for his twenty-something years of life.</p><p>This is the second in an anthology of short stories highlighting original DnD characters and the stories built around them, their backstories, and their adventures.</p><p>These were written for NaNoWriMo 2019.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original D&amp;D Character(s)/Original D&amp;D Character(s), Original Dungeons &amp; Dragons Character(s) &amp; Original Dungeons &amp; Dragons Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>DnD: An Anthology [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034781</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Metal-Worked Roses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A sack of coin, around one-hundred to one-hundred-fifty gold pieces dropped atop the countertop.</p><p>Counting it would be a chore, one the ginger didn't have the time for. If anything, he’d chalk it up to the fact that the individual paying was a familiar face, a regular customer, and a close friend of the family. “It should all be there. The wife and I counted a few times to make sure.” </p><p>“I’ll take your word for it.”</p><p>Lithe fingers snaked through the drawstring of the purse before slipping it into his apron. “If you can give me a second, I’ll just go check on that breastplate for you.” A grin, an award-winning customer service grin, tugged at his lips. The smithy itself was open-air, attached to the shop itself through a door fitted to the original building. Everything beyond had been added over time, expanded, and adjusted to suit the tight quarters while providing the equipment necessary to host a functional smithy. </p><p>A heftier set gentleman sat at a dirtied workbench. Small sharpened tools had been spread out across the table, and glasses seated on the edge of his nose aided in differentiating which they were. The moment the younger, cleaner man approached, all attention shifted. “--Calvin Jenkins pay up yet?” </p><p>“Just now actually. How much do you have left on that breastplate?” From what he could see, the design was nearly finished: a lion head baring its fangs surrounded with a ring of fire. He wasn't sure whether it was a family symbol, some kind of business logo, or some nickname the town guard granted to Mr. Jenkins for his years of loyal (and often ruthless) service. Truthfully, whatever it was meant to be didn’t matter, so long as they were commissioned. It took a hell of a lot of work to convince the older man at the front counter that the Aurum Family Smith and Amor was equally comparable in price to the competitors with a work ethic and product that stood taller than even the armorer for the royal militia. Supporting local businesses always aided the little people after all, which solidified the clientele of the Jenkins family for at least four generations. Be it Gillian’s knack for charm or his salesmanship, it’s garnered first-time clients, returning clients, and kept people coming for years. </p><p>“As a matter of fact,” The man sat up and adjusted his lenses. “You can tell Mr. Jenkins that I’m just nailing those finishing touches now. Your mother should be upstairs so go ask him if he wants to head up for something to drink. Offer him lunch as well if he hasn't had any yet.” With a hefty sigh, he returned to his work hunched over the breastplate, new tools swapping places with the others to continue the detailing. </p><p>Within no time, the young man was stationed back behind the front counter. “My father’s nearly done but has offered you a place at our table while you wait if you’d be interested in something to drink or eat. We have more than enough if you’re interested in a hot meal, on the house.” </p><p>“Oh, I really couldn’t ask that of you, but I won’t say no to something to drink and a chat with your mother. Did you know she’s quite the intellectual when it comes to small talk? I feel you both have that in common.” </p><p>“I’m afraid I have too much in common with her. I already frighten myself whenever I catch my own reflection. It’s not entirely a bad thing though. She's quite the woman.” </p><p>“Right you are!” A few awkward chuckles end the conversation before Mr. Jenkins bid farewell for the moment to ascend the stairs to the household on the second floor. No doubt, Mrs. Camilla Aurum would be there now, tending to things in preparation for supper. With the amount of money coming in lately, a bit of splurging here and there on higher-end cuts of meat, fresher produce, and treats was considered a reward for their hard work put in. Both Gillian and his father Cyrus had been doing well on the business front lately.</p><p>With the setup they’d established: Gillian working the counter and Cyrus taking up the heavy lifting, the two-man operation went smoothly for the most part. A few larger orders and more complex adjustments, enhancements, and repairs required the delicate hands of the young man, however, to which he’d offer assistance. Not only that, but his expertise wasn’t so much in the armor his father had founded the business on, but the firearms that were quickly beginning to attract attention. </p><p>Sleek bodies with a satisfying crack of the hammer were not only adept killing machines but carried an element of fashionable grace. A quick draw, a bullet meeting its mark, and a simple puff of smoke the moment of firing was all too attractive to the modern marksman, and Gillian Aurum had taken it upon himself to familiarize himself with the knowledge of gunmanship. In fact, he might have been one of the only independent firearm savants of his small hometown. The work of Aurum Family Smith and Armor wasn’t only notable because of the work itself, but because of the extent of their resume. </p><p>As Mr. Jenkins disappeared from sight, the breath Gillian hadn’t been aware he was holding slipped free in a deep sigh.</p><p>Work hours were nothing to joke about, especially when they required more than just physical momentum. Charm and charismatic flair, while natural, was exhausting. Smiling at every customer who stepped foot through that front door and attending to the endless questioning, concerns, satisfying ramblings, and dissatisfied complaints, took more than a sympathetic ear. Work like this required a specific set of skills, all of which Gillian had luckily been born with. </p><p>After what felt like an eternity, the final minutes of the workday ticked away to close at long last. The hand-painted sign in the window had been switched from “OPEN” to “CLOSED” and the father and son duo were free to return upstairs for the evening. Mr. Jenkins had left long before to claim his decorated chest-piece, a few last-minute familiar faces stopped in for adjustments and minor repairs, but nothing out of the ordinary for a weekday’s work. </p><p>Supper came and went with casual conversation and a quick bath cleared whatever couldn’t be wiped away with a rag. That was enough to get the three ready for bed.</p><p>Evenings, while rewarding in its own right, left too much silence for Gillian’s liking. Silence invited thoughts and thoughts invited the imagination to run freely, sometimes a bit too much. These days, being in his early twenties meant the call of the world. That call of the wild was to explore whatever was beyond the bubble of the world you knew or be daring enough to step free of that circle of comfort. The past few years had led up to this realization. For Gil, the call pulled him to explore his romantic side. </p><p>As a man of vision, of wonder, and free spirit, the call had always been for his heart to answer. With the charm he’d been gifted, why did he have to limit its usefulness to standing behind a countertop? There were hearts he aimed to capture, attention he hoped to garner, and the one treasure he desired, or rather lusted for, was love. Settling down in the conventional sense had never appealed to him in the slightest. Dreams of daring trysts in the dead of night sparked the skipping of heartbeats and a tense aching in his chest. Stolen kisses behind the smithy, which have admittedly occurred in the past, had long been exchanged for unaccompanied hours seated in the same position awaiting another customer or another job to give him something to do with his spare time. </p><p>He knew his family was the type that would kill for an opportunity to pass the legacy of the business to their son and his children. They didn't expect him to dedicate any time to the rest of the world if they weren't customers or potential clientele. All he’d see were the same four walls boxing him in. </p><p>It was for this reason exactly that he had been planning to escape. This wasn’t something long term, just for a few hours at most, enough for him to breathe in the night air and get a taste for the spoils of the city. He’d nicked a rope from one of the chests in his father’s workshop and kept it cleverly hidden beneath a layer of dirtied aprons he’d left to wash later in the week. </p><p>Adrenaline fueled his every move as he situated the rope along the foot of his bed. It was sturdy enough to hold him steady as he slipped through the window and into the alley that ran along the side of their home. Once he was hidden under the cover of night, the world was his. With every inch of his descent, the what-if’s of failure and discovery rattled about in mind. What would happen if someone recognized him? What would they say to his parents? What would the punishment be for a night to himself? It wasn’t as if his search for love was anything more than an innocent dream of a hopeless romantic. Should the situation arise that he actually satisfies the desires of his heart, the shock would more than likely send him reeling. </p><p>There was no telling what the night would offer him, and the thoughts of those ‘what-if’s’ followed him through the desolate streets towards the only major hub he could think of to get a drink and engage in some friendly conversation.</p><p>Knowing the kinds of people that came through, they were more than likely en route to the capital. The town was one Gillian had known his entire life. Faces never really changed, only aged. The select few that managed to escape the bubble that was the little pit stop of a town, were those looking to make their way in the royal militia or migrate towards bigger and better business avenues. They never really held the same appeal to the young man. </p><p>He’d grown up spending time with the daughter of the man who ran the local tavern, so he often saw the variety of individuals who took up residence in the spare rooms on the second floor. Very few were keen on the idea of talking to strange children if they approached. Most of the time, they were looking for exciting stories and amusing anecdotes to carry them throughout the rest of the week.</p><p>Tonight, he’d get them to talk. No longer was he a strange child, but a man who could hold his own in conversations. If he wanted someone to talk to, he’d convince them in one way or another. </p><p>As he pressed through the door to the open dining room, he’s met with a few quick glances, a few prolonged stares, and a hearty welcome from the familiar gentleman stationed behind the bar.</p><p>“Evenin’ Gil! I didn’t think I’d ever see you past supper. How are the parents?” </p><p>“Evening Mr. Harlow. Haven’t slowed down yet, but something tells me they’ve got plenty of years tucked away for when they’re ready to take a break. You won’t tell them you saw me in here, right?”</p><p>Steel-toed boots strode across wooden paneling to the stools spaced neatly beside the bar. </p><p>“Everyone’s entitled to a secret or two.” From beneath the bar, Mr. Harlow grabs a tankard, topping it off with a smooth amber liquid. He slid it across to Gillian before the mention of drinks even arose between them. “I think you’ve earned this one.” With a wink, work resumed. “You just enjoy yourself. Don’t hesitate to give me a shout if you need anything, alright son?” </p><p>“I won’t-- Cheers.” Full lips latched onto the rim of the tankard and took down the first sip of the chilled brew. Something about the house’s ale spoke less to his stomach than it did to the nostalgia of life in his hometown. Rich flavors hinted back to afternoons when he snuck tastes of drinks as they aged, of meats as they cured, and the occasional first pick of the crops from the outer edges of the adjacent farmland. The world was delivered to him on a silver platter of sorts and a great many of his wishes and desires were akin to expectations. If he wanted something, putting himself in the right place at the right time would he grant him exactly that.</p><p>It was how it always had been. </p><p>People, on the other hand, were mysteries wrapped in enigmas. They were an unpredictable breed.</p><p>They didn’t need to sit for long to understand the nuances of speech patterns and they certainly didn’t need the right mixture of spices in order to experience the full flavor of their personality. Certain social cues and approaches to interpersonal interaction determined what could and couldn’t, would, and wouldn’t affect the flow of the interaction. It was something Gillian had picked up during his years behind that desk in his family’s shop. Knowing who you were talking to played to the strengths you’d already acquired through getting to know them, but new people, fresh puzzles, that was the truest test of cracking their codes. </p><p>One of the blank pages under that roof with him had better begin preparations for the fiery quill to begin leaving his mark. </p><p>After having glanced around the room both upon entering and now seated at the bar, not a single individual came across as a potential person of interest. All appeared to be either off to themselves (and wishing it remain that way) or already with a companion or companions. A quick read of the room would have alerted anyone that this was the furthest thing from a sociable atmosphere. Taverns, especially in the evening, had all the potential to raise hell. Alcohol spurred conversation if the dosage was high enough, so where was all the alcohol? </p><p>“<em>Master Barkeep, if you could please refill each patron’s glass I would appreciate it.</em>”</p><p>The words flowed as smoothly as syrup, projecting around the room with the confidence and mastery of a thespian.</p><p>“<em>The sun forbade me from craving the thrills of life, so you must blame my lust for excitement on the moon.</em>”</p><p>The creature that spoke, or rather the angel of seduction, had risen from one of the rooms for rent on the second floor and had come to claim the night as their plaything. Flowing tapestry-esque garments adorned the lengthy body of the individual, flowing behind them with every step. The embroidery told stories of the cycles of the moon, culminating in the astrological display of gemstones decorating the midnight hues of the individual’s skin. To each patron, the drow offered the tip of their head in a flavorful gesture, or simply a wink. That is until they reached Gillian. </p><p>Eyes never broke, trapped by mystery, intrigue, and the attraction to something so theatrical as a grand entrance. To have an audience was amusing, but to have so much as one onlooker with their mouth agape and a wavering hold on the drink in their hand was a reward that couldn’t be paid with gold and silver. </p><p>Before the threat of accident arose, the stunning individual swooped in, plucking the tankard from Gillian’s hand. The stool beside him remained empty for only a moment longer before it was occupied by a blur of shooting stars and the excitable gaze of pure, pearl sclera “Would’ve been tragic should this have fallen.” Features ease to a smile less forced. “Shame to let a good drink go to waste, now drink up and reunite your jaw with the rest of your head lest it falls off.” Gillian’s drink is offered back to him, but not without a cheeky sip from the stranger.</p><p>“Alunaste Glynn’tavell, traveling teller of tales, singer of songs, and master of majesty. If you haven’t yet caught on, I don’t just mystify with looks, but it does help to grab the audience’s attention before I even open my mouth.”</p><p>Failed attempts to reconnect to the conversation at hand brought Gillian to his tankard. Sips helped to fill the silence on his end while Alunaste spoke on, but soon the other’s speech slowed to allow for rebuttals, or an introduction, or better yet, a flirtatious attempt to match. His sips were forcefully swallowed.</p><p>“Aurum…. Gillian… Gillian Aurum I should say. Chances are you’ve passed my family’s smithy coming in. We’re just along that main road.” </p><p>“A smithy?”</p><p>“Smithing, armory work, mild dabbling in firearms-- I hate to boast, but the pride my family has had in the work we do, for generations, speaks to the caliber of our business. It’s nothing compared to the exoticism of a traveler though. Don’t make me beg for a recounting of some of your most memorable tales.” </p><p>A genuine chuckle erupted from the drow. “The list is far too lengthy to divulge in its entirety, but if you have the time, I would be honored to share a few rather entertaining experiences. You don’t mind if I speak openly, do you? I have a tendency to fall prey to the freedom of speech.”</p><p>The delicate wave of their hand signaled for their own drink now that the rest of the dining room had been refreshed and refilled. Just as Gillian had been served, a tankard was filled to the brim with a shimmery amber and placed within arm's reach. “Cheers to you Master Barkeep,” Alunaste raised their tankard to Mr. Harlow before raising it in turn to Gillian, “and to you Master Gillian Aurum.” </p><p>“Cheers.” The two, now with full tankards, engaged easily in the sharing of stories, the recounting of anecdotes, and reliving some of the glorious moments they’d experienced being as youthful as they were. Drinks went down like water, and before too long, they were no longer acquaintances. A friendship of sorts had blossomed between them. Raucous laughter erupted between them both on multiple occasions and warranted a few irritated stares from the neighboring patrons who had long since finished their drinks and made their way to the door. </p><p>Mild ‘good-evenings’ were exchanged, but in the end, the two remained: empty tankards in hand and a million more interesting facts and recitations of instances past they had to get off of their chests. Whatever Alunaste had said before about their sense of mystery was spot on. While they went from story to story, there hadn’t been a single break in the attention they were able to hold. Perhaps it was in part due to the alcohol, but something about the way they spoke, brilliant pictures painted themselves in the mind’s eye. If anyone claimed that minstrels and bards couldn’t be artists in their own right, they had yet to hear firsthand the weaving of tales in the way that Alunaste could.</p><p>Anyone could tell a story, but the art of stringing along the words to fascinate and enchant was a true work of art. </p><p>Once they’d begun to quiet down and the effects of the alcohol had started to wane, silence fell upon them. Of course, there were still countless stories left to be told, but something odd, unspoken, sat heavy in the air between them. For two individuals that had no difficulties speaking their mind, the sudden silence had created a sort of tensity in the air. </p><p>“I’ll admit, of all the places I’ve had the fortune to visit, you’ve surprised me in matching my antics. The people I’ve met in my travels have all brought something new and exciting to my life, leaving lasting impressions, making for entertaining stories, but none have given me something more to walk away with. There’s something about you, Gillian, something I’ve never stumbled upon before.”</p><p>As they spoke, they shifted to rest their cheek upon the curve of their fingers as if observing Gil further. </p><p>“I suppose I should admit as well that the spontaneity of this venture out of my bedroom window was all the more worth it knowing that I spent the last few hours with you if you don’t mind my saying so.” </p><p>“Of course I don’t mind! If anything, I’m pleased to hear you share in my sentiment.” Lips tugged into a smile. They’re gentle as they regain their posture once more. “It was truly an experience that I’ll remember fondly, but I mustn’t keep you as it’s probably far later than you expected to be out tonight--” </p><p>“I expected the unexpected when I left. Life so far has been breastplates, gauntlets, and gun barrels since I was young. I expected to stay out as long as the fates were willing to keep me.” If he were out until dawn, so be it. If he were out for only a few more hours, so be it. If there was a purpose at all for him to remain planted in that seat, then so be it. </p><p>His word warranted another chuckle, encouraging Alunaste to take Gillian’s face in their hands before tenderly pressing a kiss to his lips. While fleeting, it felt as if the world stood still. Within moments, the kiss had ended, leaving the two mere inches from one another. Breath heavy on both their lips. Silence fell once again. It truly was unexpected. </p><p>Chalking it up to the alcohol, he took a moment to process. Truthfully, a part of himself had wanted to initiate things. There had been nothing but a stagnance in his life ever since he took up work for the family business. Little to no opportunities had presented themselves to him to find people his own age to socialize with, to grow along with, and to experience life together with. Those that he had known as a child, while still having aged along with him, had moved on. Their lives took them in different directions, to different places, to do different things. The guilt of leaving both parents to manage a still budding business on their own broke his heart.</p><p>In a sense, they were the shackles that bound him there. </p><p>That night was the birth of his independence, and along with it came bouts of rebelliousness. He reached for the lapels of Alunaste’s garb to pull them back, bringing lips together with the force of a tidal wave. The truly unexpected had been himself all along. </p><p>It took little to no time at all to escape the openness of the dining room and reconvene in Alunaste’s room.</p><p>Lips no longer spoke stories or sang songs but instead utilized an entirely new and creative set of skills to draw a brand new octave of notes on their breath. The songs had been divested of all semblance of past recountings and were written strictly for the purpose of the present. All garb ended up discarded on the lone wooden chair by the window while the magic of two like-minded Casanovas conducted itself with passionate grace. </p><p>The hours whiled away, culminating in the silence of the night finally taking them both in sleep, the most restful either had had in some time, especially for Gillian. For once, the expression of his dreams came to him, presenting him with sights, sounds, and sensations of which he had never experienced. It had to have meant something. A night with someone such as Alunaste couldn’t have been for no reason other than to express his withdrawn desires, could it? Those thoughts would be a conversation to have in the morning. </p><p>Of all the things to despise in this world, the rising of the sun was one of those few that were impossible to refute. A stray stream blinded him without warning, rousing him awake. Was he the first to wake? Had his bedfellow beaten him to meet the morning or was he lucky enough to catch the image of beauty lying beside him in sleep’s serenity? As careful as he could, he turned, expecting the glow of the crystal decorating Alunaste’s skin to meet him, but the bed beside him was empty.</p><p>If only he’d been awake sooner, he could have joined for breakfast. However, the dining room was practically empty, save for a few farmers preparing to tend to their fields. Mr. Harlow had been replaced with his wife, equally as kind and hospitable as her husband, but not the familiar face he had hoped to see. </p><p>The room remained as bare as it had when he’d awoken. The mystery of the kindred spirit disappeared like a phantom, leaving only the stories and the songs to retell. There had to have been more to this than just an evening, and with hope, there would be answers awaiting him beyond the walls of the smithy, beyond the confines of the town, and beyond what he had known for his twenty-something years of life. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Gillian was a character made for a one-shot to break up the first campaign I ever played. The entire thing was designed to be a journey into a fictional book series that was used as a holding cell for the original party. I made Gillian because I wanted a really flirty gunslinger but we never finished the one-shot. I think I spent more time on this one bit of backstory than actually playing as him. </p><p>Literally, his whole reason for adventure is to rekindle a one-night stand. If that's not ridiculous, I don't know what is.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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